No Lawyers in Yemen
by K Hanna Korossy
Summary: Folsom Prison Blues tag: Dean sorta forgot to mention something.


**No Lawyers in Yemen**  
K Hanna Korossy

If the only secrets Dean made any effort to keep weren't just the ones inside his head, Sam might never have even found out.

Dean was waiting for him at the small college coffee shop, a corner table staked out and commandeered. Maps, print-outs, and notes blanketed the whole surface, looking like the books and papers that fanned out in front of most of the students who filled the place. Which was sort of the point. With Green River County Detention Center only five days and two states behind them, they were laying low and playing it as safe as they could and still do their job. Which meant Dean in school coffee lounges and Sam visiting the sorority house.

His brother just raised an eyebrow as Sam slid into the chair opposite him, clearly still disgruntled at that day's division of assignments.

"Seyroush never dated, never had any visitors except family, and was pretty much the house wallflower," Sam said with a sigh, lacing his hands in front of him. "Which totally breaks the pattern of the other two girls."

Dean shrugged. "So, we're back to victims of convenience instead of specific types."

Sam appropriated his coffee and took a sip, grimacing either at the cold or the bitterness of it. "Yeah, except for two things. One, she was killed behind the theatre building, a place no one can figure out any reason for her to have been. And two, a few weeks ago she dyed her hair blonde."

"Blonde?" Dean blinked. "An Indian girl?"

"Yup. Probably some kind of getting-away-from-family rebellion thing."

"Well, you should know," Dean muttered under his breath.

Sam scowled at him, hiding the hit.

Dean glanced away, clearing his throat, and returned with a grin. "So, you see anything else? Hot sorority chicks walking around in their underwear, girl-on-girl action, any of Victoria's secrets?"

Sam switched to a wilting glower.

Defiantly unwilted, Dean chuckled, flipping through some notes. "Well, we've got a list of candidates, everything from incubi to your garden-variety campus serial killer. I faxed Bobby and Ellen some pictures, see if those marks on the victims' foreheads mean anything to anybody. So far I got nada."

"Either of them call you back yet?"

Dean shrugged, pulling out his phone. "Friggin' coffeehouse rules—no cell phones. Bobby called, but I haven't had a chance to check back with him, didn't want to leave all the stuff here." He tossed the phone to Sam, who swiped it out of the air with one hand. "Go for it."

Sam nodded, rising from the table and heading toward the front door of the café.

By the time he was out in the busy student center corridor, Bobby's terse, _"Maybe I got something—call me,"_ had already finished playing in his ear. Sam paused a moment over the less-familiar phone, trying to figure out how to do recalls, when the phone went on to play saved messages. Sam's eyebrow went up when he heard Deacon's halting voice begin.

Which wouldn't have been so strange considering it was their dad's old friend who'd called them in on the Detention Center job in the first place. What was odd was the time of the call: three days before. Two days after they finished and took off as fast as the Impala could go. Was this just another thank-you? Maybe confirmation that salting and burning Dolores Glockner's bones had stopped the killings at the Center? So why hadn't Dean mentioned the call? Sam tilted the phone back to his ear and listened.

Two minutes later, he was storming back into the coffee shop.

Dean glanced up at him idly, then did a double-take, face clouding. "What?" he asked.

Sam was already shoveling all their material into his satchel. "Let's go," he said tightly.

Dean was already helping him pack up, but concern and bafflement filled his face. "Did Bobby say something?"

"Not here," was all Sam bit off because, so help him, if Dean started into it in public, there was no telling where or how it would stop.

Dean, wisely, didn't ask again, rolling his shoulders with a final glance around the place, then following Sam out of the shop. Sam had the satchel slung around his shoulder, his jaw set in barely repressed anger as he led the way out of the center and down the street, off campus to the little student-geared inn where they'd set up housekeeping for this case.

It was only when the door shut behind them that they turned to face each other. Dean looked warily anticipatory. Sam…Sam didn't know how he looked, but considering Dean was watching him like he was a ticking time bomb, it probably wasn't good.

"Were you even going to tell me?" Sam started, the words sharp.

Dean's frown deepened, the jerk not having a clue why Sam was mad. "You wanna tell me first what you're talking about?" he asked with a small shimmy of _what's gotten into you?_

"Glockner, attacking you in jail. Messing with your _heart_, Dean." Because after seeing your brother nearly die of a heart attack at age twenty-six, that fear just never went totally away.

"Oh." Dean shrugged. "Dude, there was nothing to tell. She made a play for me in the infirmary, they serve salt with lunch, end of story."

Sam moved in closer, using every inch he had on Dean to cow his brother. "You didn't tell me she _attacked_ you. She almost killed you. I have a right to—"

"What, freak out?" Dean wasn't backing off, and what he lacked in height, he made up for in presence and big brotherly attitude. "Sam, this was why I didn't tell you—I knew you'd jump right back to Nebraska and it wasn't like that, okay? She tried to get to me and it didn't work, I'm fine, it's over."

"So why is Deacon in the hospital?" Sam spit out.

"Dea—" Dean's expression suddenly shifted into realization. "The message. Man, I knew I should have deleted it." He shook his head.

"He's got coronary damage, Dean. He might eventually need a transplant. And he says you should get checked out, too."

"Sam, chill. I'm _fine_." He put a hand on Sam's arm, which Sam immediately shrugged off. Dean's earnest tone never wavered. "I salted her before she could really do anything—that's when she went after Tiny. But I'm okay, I promise."

Sam reeled away from him. "For God's sake, Dean, this isn't some scratch we can put a band-aid on. This is your heart. You can't just…" He set his face again and turned back. "We're going to the doctor. The closest recommended cardiologist we can find. Today."

Dean's chin lifted. "No. Forget it, Sam. I get it, you're worried. I appreciate it, and believe me, if I felt anything like I felt after getting fried, I'd be first in line at the hospital. But there's nothing, okay? She didn't hurt me."

Sam was already shaking his head. "We're going." He'd dropped the satchel and was pulling out his laptop to find a doctor, leaning over the chair as he booted it up.

"The case—"

"The case can wait."

A hand settled on his shoulder, soft counterpoint to Dean's hard, "Sam—"

It was the pin to the balloon that felt like it had been expanding in Sam's chest since Dean had first outlined the plan to get arrested. The last tick of the bomb, and suddenly Sam was on his feet and exploding and Dean was stepping back, stunned, and there was still too much pressure and no room, no air to _breathe_.

"This was _your_ plan, Dean, your stupid friggin' plan to go in there without any weapons, any back-up, without even each other." His finger stabbed at Dean's chest, over his too-fragile heart. "You realize I didn't sleep in there because my cellmate was just…_watching_ me like he was waiting for me to let my guard down? Or that three guys cornered me in the shower, and if it weren't for Deacon showing up, I might not've made it out of there in one piece? Or that this officially once and for all buried my law career, because no lawyer can have any kind of record? Dean, I gave up everything for this hunt, _everything_, including being able to watch your back. I'm not losing that again, even if I have to tie you up to take you to the hospital." He was shaking when he finished. His hands, his voice, and Sam didn't know anymore if it was anger or fear.

Dean stared at him a moment as if he didn't recognize him. Then his face softened as if he did. Too well. "I'm sorry."

"Don't," Sam growled, dodging away from Dean's half-reach. "I'm not…that's not what this is about, Dean."

"Yeah, actually, it is." Dean was talking to him like he was two, but Sam didn't have any anger left for that. "Okay, so it probably wasn't the smartest plan ever—"

Sam snorted.

"—but I was doing it for Dad. I figured you…"

Sam blinked hard, sinuses burning. "I know. I do. But, Dean, Dad's gone," he said bluntly but softly. "You're still here." _And you're all I've got left._

Dean was watching him, the same way he had all their lives when he was trying to figure out something about Sam. But really, what was there to figure out? Sam didn't want to lose his brother, either to a barrier of bars or to a vengeful ghost. Dean should've been able to relate.

Then again, some part of him had to acknowledge, Dean wasn't used to being at this end. Not since their dad had died had Dean let Sam express that fear at all, and Dean still didn't seem sure what to do with the reciprocation.

Except, "Okay, so, you gonna find me a doctor or what?"

Sam wobbled at the unexpected victory.

Dean's hand on the back of his neck gently pushed him down in the chair. "No more prison jobs, okay? I promise."

Sam nodded, not trusting his voice, already typing a search into the computer.

Dean's thumb ruffled his hair in a rare display of tenderness. "I'm sorry about the law thing, Sammy."

He huffed a laugh. "No, you're not."

"Yeah," earnestly, "I am."

Sam shook his head, his throat full of lumps. "Doesn't matter. That's not my life anymore. And Henriksen was already looking for me, anyway."

Dean hmphed. "Dude's got a real Captain Ahab thing going there."

Sam's mouth twitched as he half-turned to look at Dean. "A classical lit reference? Act's slipping, man."

The back of his head was softly smacked and Dean moved away with a dismissive, "Whatever."

Sam went back to looking, narrowing his search by state, then county.

"And I didn't stop watching your back," came the muted, too-offhand corollary from behind him as his brother sifted through his duffel.

Sam stopped typing, tilting his head. "What?"

"Who do you think got Deacon down to the shower? Can't leave a girl like you alone for a minute. The yahoos who cornered you learned that the hard way." All said quietly, almost reluctantly. Another secret that would have been kept from him if Dean weren't realizing Sam needed to know.

He really needed to know.

Sam swallowed, then silently returned to his search.

And took Dean out for the best burger and seasoned fries in town when the doctor gave him a clean bill of health.

**The End  
**


End file.
